Parenthood: The Long Goodbye

...now the new mother, that leaky vessel,

begins to nurse her child,

beginning the long goodbye. 

(Kathleen Norris, "Ascension")

Carefully, reverently, she lifts the blanket covering her daughter. Her eyes travel over the sweet sleeping face, the still hands, the soft hair...perfection. All where it should be...just as God created her.

The hospital garage is cool and quiet. No nurses stand by to ooh and ahh, no family members are able to come in and share this time with her. Her beloved daughter lies peacefully on a gurney beside the ambulance, never to open her eyes again. Never to smile; never to respond to her mother's voice. This is not the "hello" of birth, but the "goodbye" of death. My mother touches my baby's sister's face for the last time. Her 21 busy, fruitful and blessed years of life on earth are over.



When we become a parent, we do not look forward to the possibilities of suffering. We naturally look ahead for our children, but these long gazes down the future tend to be for happy things--smiles, toddling, baby talk, cuddles, and then on to  medical school and financial success. What  mother or father in their right mind looks deep into a newborn baby's eyes and coos "oh, sweetheart, I can see it now...you'll be bullied at school for your overbite, have a boyfriend who abuses you, and won't be able to find a full time job until you are 30. We are so excited!"


And who really, truly can believe that one day that little progeny of ours will willfully walk out of our front door never to return as our dependent child?  Yes, in a sense they will need you. But you know what? They no longer will need your listening ear for every detail of their daily lives. Suddenly, it seems, they will have friends you have never met. Dates you know nothing about. Apartments or dorm rooms you may never get a chance to visit. Griefs and problems of their own they will never share, even with you. You who poured your soul out for their benefit. The umbilical cord is finally, irrevocably cut. And the pain will bring you to your knees.

I had to physically restrain myself when one of my children had a bad experience at their work place...I wanted to march right down there, hands on hips, and say to this manager "How DARE you treat my child like this!! What kind of an idiot manager would treat ANYONE this way? I'm telling on you to your supervisor, and you'd better give my child a raise for all the trouble you've caused!"

OK, mamma bear, I had to remind myself...this "child" is now 18 years old, and beyond your legal defensive screaming. But...but...I don't want any of my children to suffer! Please, let me straighten the path! Let me remove all the rocks, let me make sure the sun shines every day and no bad guys lurk in the shadows! Let me believe they will live forever...

Because that's what it really is. We look down that long, winding path and have that sinking realization that there is nothing we can really do to stop the lurking bad guys. We will be dead and gone, and our children will be walking that path without us to be their personal body guards. In fact, to be truthful, we may continue to walk our own lonely paths while their journey comes to an end. That is probably the hardest and most painful thought of all.

This is the core. This is a secret grief all parents carry. This can be tapped at any random moment, and will bring tears during church sermons, movies, beautiful sunsets, and even coffee commercials. The deep, abiding belief that "behold, children are a gift from the LORD (Psalm 127:3)" and they really are not our property. God can call them back to Himself at any time.

Should this be grievous? Should we complain? Or should we be like Job, who after losing all his children in one disastrous moment, says "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord"?

I don't know about you, but seeing my mother lose a child and witnessing friends lose children, it seems like God is asking a lot for a "Job" response. And yet--He does. He asks us to back away...to give up...to trust Him with the future and with things most precious to us. He asks us to hold our children in a light grasp, ready to offer them up in a few fleeting years, or in a moment of time. He asks us to say "this is another human being...independent...made in His image for His purposes, not for mine."

Am I ready for that? Probably not. I'm in practice. I have quit giving (well, not so much!) unsolicited advice. I don't call and leave voice messages on their phones (I'm a good girl and always text). I try not to say "so...met anyone special yet?" too often. I don't insist they clean their bedrooms in their apartment 600 miles away. I still tell them I love them. Regularly.  So we shall see. God is working on my heart, one heartbreaking day at a time.

I shall close with my favorite parenting quotation of all time:

“Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” (Elizabeth Stone)

May God be with and bless each of us as we both struggle with and share our griefs with each other.

How to Raise Genius Children the Patented Sanders Way

OK, it has been observed my many people that I have 4 of the smartest children on the planet. By many, I mean by my mother and by my children themselves. But I'm sure many of you out there who are blessed enough to know my kids would wholeheartedly agree (except, of course, for the fact that YOU probably think you have the smartest children in the world. Well, you are wrong.)

I know you must be wondering by now...Carla, what IS your secret? Just how did your offspring attain such dizzying heights of intellectual magnificence?

It's a secret for a reason. Do you think I want your litter of humans out there in the big world competing for jobs with mine??

I will, however, let you have just a GLIMPSE; a peripheral glance into the vast system that is--

THE SANDERS SYSTEM for RAISING
 INTELLECTUAL GENIUSES

1. Marry a smart guy

I had little hope of passing on much brain cell power unless I could reproduce with someone of superior fire-power, brain-wise. My husband passed a rigorous test before being chosen as my mate. SAT and ACT scores, GRE scores, all-night Scrabble tournaments and Dr. Who knowledge all factored in.

2. Read to them a lot--major on Dr. Seuss


I like to  read to them in a chair. I do not read them with a bear. Not with a rat, not with a mouse. I only read to them in a house. I like to read them here and there; I read out loud to them everywhere. Bear, rat, mouse, chair; books in our house are EVERYWHERE!!








3. Live in a neighborhood that sparks conversation

Ask any of my children about the benefits of low-cost housing in a major city, and they will respond by assailing you with stories of stolen wagons, house break-ins,  stolen cars, drunks in the driveway, drug dealers in the alley, bike jackings, citizens arrests of garage break-ins, zombie Satanist killers trying to come in the house on an early Sunday morning, gun shot holes in the window sill, muggings, and really interesting SWAT team activity in the neighboring homes.

"So...how was your day?"
"Ah, the usual. Had to call the cops again."
 "Cool. I got an A in math today."

See how that works?

3. Keep them isolated from "cool" people by dressing them in hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes

Who needs the pressure of cheerleader politics and jock culture put-downs? Stick with the proven gangs--chess club, math competitions, crossing guard duty, AV club--anywhere that Payless shoes are accepted attire. Sweatpants fit the bill. As well as haircuts done at 9 PM on a school night by mom in the kitchen.






4. Give them absolutely no privacy

All four of my children shared a bedroom until my youngest was 3 years old. One bunk bed for the boys, a roll-out mattress on the floor for the girls. Rolled up during the day and put in the closet so there was room for play. They spent nights chatting about math theory, theology and the merits of various Pokemon (Pikachu rules, am I right??).




5. Feed them the highest quality Guv'mnt food

The day my oldest son realized I'd been feeding him reconstituted dry milk with his meals all along was a sad and difficult day. I had to swear him to secrecy--"you must NOT reveal this to the other kids, or no more processed cheese for you!" I always hid the 'adult' milk (i.e. 'real') in the back of the refrigerator and didn't let them see me pour it for myself.

The dry egg mix was a real challenge--I usually tried to hide it in another form of food (not always successfully). The canned beef stew may have possibly ended up (I will not confirm this) in the cat's bowl on occasion. The peanut butter, on the other hand, was always consumed wholeheartedly, and contributed to everyone's brain development.

6. Send them to high-quality public schools

I did have a slight concern about a teacher showing "Jurassic Park" in science class, and really did wonder about why kids were feeling compelled to throw chairs at each other in another classroom. But for the most part I found that public education in the inner city held a unique advantage...if you actually got involved as a parent at the school, they would bend over backwards to try to accommodate you. It's especially important to get the crabby school secretary on your side. (I actually brought flowers to one of them. I know; suck-up. It was worth every penny that year.) The school also inadvertently taught my kids survival skills--first duck, then run. Only fight back if absolutely necessary, and PROTECT THOSE GLASSES! However, your place in the lunch-line is God-given. Don't back down on that.



Now, I have other theories about brain development, like how they ate the same homemade pizza every Friday night for years and years, and how they never got many vegetable variations because of my husband's irrational fear of green peppers. But I'll save them for my upcoming cookbook, "Cooking for Brain-Power on the US Government's Dime" (the sequel to my popular "Beans Comin' Out'cha Ears" cookbook published last year).

The Sanders Patented System for Driving Your Adult Children Crazy

I've been privileged to talk with several young friends lately who are dealing with the extraordinary challenges of  bringing up small children. I sense the panic in their voices and faces, and wish I could magically fast-forward their lives for them...kind of a "Ghost of Parenthood Future" vision where they could see themselves sitting at a dinner table, laughing and talking with their gawky yet amazing teenage kids and enjoying the fruits of their long-suffering discipline and instruction.

I have to say, teenagers are really fun to have around if you don't take them too seriously; and one of my favorite ways of keeping them humble and grounded was to embarrass them as often as possible. I don't mean in a horrible, demeaning bully way. I mean--"oh, man, look what my mom is doing (or saying) right now. I think I'm gonna die if anyone sees me with her!"

Things only get better as they enter young-adulthood, with semi-important job titles and friends they would really like to impress for business reasons. Suddenly your power of eye-roll induction triples or quadruples...who would have guessed it could be so intoxicating? A few examples to help you along...



1.  Joke-telling.

I really get a kick out of storytelling I love to tell jokes that I've heard or read. They tickle me to no end, but my memory isn't what it used to be. So I can normally either get the set-up, then trash the punch line...or I get the set-up all wrong so the punch line make absolutely no sense at all. "A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar...oh, wait a minute...a priest, a RABBIT and a minister hop into a bar--yeah, that's it--" and about that time my kids are already groaning and begging me to stop while there is yet time.

2. Social Media

. I make sure to keep up with them on Facebook. And I mean REALLY keep up with them. I know...some of you parents out there are saying "Facebook? No way...it's just the government's way of tracking civilians so President Obama can take away our guns." C'mon, that's just silly. That's what Google is for. Facebook is for stalking your grown children and commenting on every status they post. When you get better at loading photos (rigghhhttt...photo-loading....you'll need to track down your grandchildren to help you with that), you can post pictures of your kids back in the day when they were cute, and would pose in lederhosen for you. It's important then to tell everyone how darling your child used to be, and how much you love him now that he's 27 and so MUCH cuter and sweeter and more available and why can't he get a date when he is so marvelous and there is something really wrong with young women today who just don't know a good man when they meet one.

3. Relationship Guessing

When meeting your grown children's friends, be sure to ask awkward questions about their personal lives. "So...are you two dating?" Or even better, "Are you two engaged?" To be honest, the last time I tried this (and I was wrong, as my son so firmly noted in a fiercely whispered aside), the couple in question actually ended up in a betrothed state not long after.So you see? I apparently have the power of Matchmaking. They should all be grateful instead of resentful.

4. Slang Usage

 I like to think of myself as young and "with-it." Although saying "with-it" apparently is not exactly "cool" right now (I'm not even so sure about "cool"). I try hard to stay abreast of current slang and use it in random ways around my kids; it helps them feel that their mom is "down with that, bruh." 'Cause that's how I roll. It's especially good when paired with my Facebook stati, since I'm killing two birds with one stone (being cool by being on FB and ALSO "keepin' it real" with my language skills. Excuse me. 'Skilz.') Oh, and don't forget to comment on their status, as well, with lots of "LOLs" and  an occasional "Fascinating story, homie."

'
5. Technology

 I really like to believe that my computer skills (ok, 'skilz') aren't too bad. But why, oh why, do I have such trouble understanding the concept of "folders" and "documents" and "files" and "jpegs" etc. etc.? I spend half my life searching around in my computer for things that I distinctly remember typing in and storing in some manner, but that now appear to have vanished into unknown regions of my machine. The simple act of calling out to my children in the next room--"kids, I don't get it--did I put my file in a folder, or is the other way around? and why is this document look all weird when I cut and paste it from this one to this other place? How do upload this thing? What do you mean, 'download, not upload?' What difference does that make?"--this honest set of questions seem to elicit knuckle-clenching fury in my dearly beloved progeny. "How many TIMES do we have to explain this stuff to you!!!???" See? The power of ignorance wins again.

6. Foreign Language Experimentation 

I have only a rudimentary grasp of perhaps 2 languages (ok, 3 if you include English),  My high school German courses prepared me for important moments in my life, like asking whether the Post Office is open ("Ist die Post offen?" "Nein, sie ist am Sonntag geschlossen!") And I remember one really fun song about "Drei Chinesen Mit Dem Kontrabass" (3 Chinese with bass violins who sit on a the curb until a policeman comes and asks them what they are doing. "We are 3 Chinese playing the bass violins." I think it had some double meaning about National Socialism).

Anyway...we are privileged in our life to meet a number of folks from around the world. And for some reason I always feel compelled to try out a few words of their language on them, whether I am vaguely close to knowing it or not. It's so much more effective when my children are around, because the nervous coughing and foot shuffling spurs me on..."Hola! Meine Name ist Carla...joie de Vivre!" Maybe I'll throw in a little finger-spelling just to be on the safe side. And then...it's time for me to sing the "Drei Chinesen" song! I know everyone appreciates an American slaughtering their language a bit from time to time. I know my kids really do.

Well, my faithful followers of all things Sanders, I only mention the few things that I am vaguely aware of in my arsenal of humiliation. I have not asked my children for any contributions, because that would embarrass them. Wait...what am I doing...excuse me as I go track them down one by one and ask them to become my Blog Followers...I'll let you know later how that goes....

Real Life Cooking Tips...Learned the Hard Way

I'm gonna go all "Martha Stewart" on you now, and offer some cooking tips for all those out there who don't have Martha Stewart's money or staff. Or hopefully her prison record.

I know our First Lady is really pressing the "nutrition" angle right now, but let's be honest--how many of us have the room or the energy for a vegetable garden? Or a private chef to cook those said vegetables into something our kids will even consider eating?

Raising four kids on a very limited budget develops the imagination in culinary arts. Or in other words--ya gotta make it do. The following recommendations are real, hard-won lessons learned in the trenches of motherhood while the bullets of low income whizzed over my head. Take heed to the wisdom of the Cheapest Mother Alive...


1. Feed your kids on Government Overstock food for as long as you can. If you start out giving them reconstituted dry milk and powdered eggs before they know any better, you can get by for quite a while until they catch on that the stuff is awful. (Just don't let them catch you pouring yourself real milk on the sly.)

2. Naming your meals with catchy titles like "Barf on Board" (creamed tuna over toast) makes supper more fun! But it can also backfire on you when your kids announce them to friends invited for dinner.

3. Homemade macaroni and cheese is just an excuse to use up lots of perfectly good cheddar that should be used on crackers while watching a movie. The box stuff is plenty good enough for family consumption, and can be pimped out with tuna. Lots and lots of tuna.

4. Did I mention tuna as a valuable resource?

5. Waking up in the morning to the smell of cold cereal and milk just can't be beat.

6. Have you ever tried tuna in canned spaghetti sauce over noodles? Really good. And so much cheaper than that fancy white fish or salmon stuff.

7. When making stir fry, be sure to use corn starch for a thickener in the sauce. Baking soda tends to explode.

8. When making homemade pizza in Australia, be aware that "tomato sauce" is their name for ketchup. (OK, this tip is for when you aren't so poor anymore and can afford to go to Australia. I'm stretching it here.)

9. A store-bought cake for your birthday needs to be eaten on a timely basis unless you plan to use it for your kid's science project.






10. Don't be shy about trying store brand items at the grocery store. For my money, "Potted Meat Product" is as good as "Spam" any day.

Someday, when you have money again, you can think about things like "arugula" or "fresh fruit" and other exotics. In the meantime, have a bowl of Marshmallow Mateys for supper and dream of a better future. Happy cooking!

Parenting Surprises: Or What Being a Mom Has Taught Me (So Far)

So, blog-fans, it's time for me to start writing my next book, and what could be more appropriate (and best-selling!) than a book on Parenting! I can see my new hardcover now--the dustjacket will have a photo of me sitting in my rocking chair with a faint halo around my graying head, holding flowers and a card or some such thing. I think the title

should  be...let's see..."They Shall Rise Up and Call Her Blessed: How to Raise Children Who Adore You." Yep. And the back flyleaf of the dustjacket will read,

 "Carla lives with her husband, 2 cats, 3 rats, 5 fish, 6 hissing cockroaches and a bunch of bumming porch squirrels near Washington D.C. She has four beautiful, successful children who worship the ground she walks on  and thank God every day for the lessons she instilled in them from infancy."

They will not be allowed to contribute any quotes at all, of course. Some things are best left unsaid.

I am highly qualified to give advice.  I and my husband have managed to reproduce ourselves four times. That alone should give me instant gravitas (right? right??) They truly are miracles, each and every one--I have had Type 1 Diabetes since young adulthood, and having children was a task usually left to healthier women. God saw me through four amazingly healthy pregnancies and deliveries despite my poor obedience to very intrusive doctors (and a few strangers with lots of advice). They are all now 21 years and up, which makes me an "older mother," I believe. And all older mothers can tell you what to do with yourself and your children. It's a Parenting Right.

And none of my kids are in jail or in the National Enquirer (yet).

I guess technically the following is not exactly advice per se. You'll have to just kinda suck the marrow out of the bones, so to speak. (I do so love a good metaphor...)

This list is dedicated to my children--you know who you are, and you know how much I love you.

I was surprised to find out...

• That I'd have to say "calm down...you'll be fine..." so often. Each kid has different frustration levels, but from skinned knees to bullies to bad job interviews, life throws so many problems at them-- I didn't know how hard it would be to help them deal with that. I'm philosophically opposed to difficulty. It just should not BE there. I understand that. I agree that stamping your feet and screaming feels good in these situations, but may not be acceptable in front of a board meeting.

• That I needed to tell myself the same thing a LOT.

• That I'd develop a whole new taste in music. My kids run scared thinking I'll like something they like. I'm stalking them by listening to their IPods. And when they hear me play the same thing on Pandora, they kinda panic. "Oh, no...Mom's listening to [name a current group or person]. Can't be cool any more."

• That I'd be able to stay up all night very, very often, and not self-destruct the next day. Walking a colicky baby, helping with overdue school projects, taking care of sick pets,  having heart palpitations from their adult problems... I am finally realizing it doesn't mean the next day is lost. Just a little woozy

• That it would make me fall in love with my husband all over again. Watching him cuddle the baby, cheer for his boys at a baseball game, tutor a frustrated daughter through a math assignment, discuss the theology of everyday life with my young adults and their friends--he shows me continually what self sacrifice looks like and what a real man is. AND I enjoy flirting with him in front of the kids to see them all squirm. 

• That is would make me fatter than I ever imagined I could be. My baby belly came and stayed. I should include it in the family album. It's become like a 7th family member.

• That I'd never regret missing a career I never could pin down anyway. (Cowgirl...actress...forest ranger...oh, well...)

• That I'd pass on the strangest likes and dislikes. They (mostly) don't like nuts, coconut, lemon, reality shows and shoe shopping. They (mostly) like odd animals like rats and snakes, thrift store-ing and old movies. I'm hoping they also like honesty, consistency, family, faith and tradition. Time will tell.

• That they all think I'm kinda funny. "Oh, mom...you are so spontaneous [smirk]." (I have to be careful not to let them see me dance. Only in the kitchen when EVERYONE is somewhere else.)

• That kids really can learn to want to please me; and how much it hurts them when I'm not pleased. The power of my disapproval is much stronger than I realize. I need to wield it carefully. With great power comes great responsibility. (yeah, Spiderman!)

• That each child has their own communication style. Some want to talk to you every day and share their news. Others are fine just touching base every few weeks--just to make sure you are still there and still love them. And it's all ok. The love cord stays tight and strong if there is trust between you. The key is to restrain myself from harassing the less-communicative ones--it results in  communicating even less. I just request that they drop me a postcard when they get married. 

• That sometimes your kid will make more money than you right out of the gate. Somehow it doesn't seem fair...I just always warn them that I'll be coming for a loan soon.

• That someone else's kid will always be more successful in school, more good-looking, more popular, more successful in their career. It's annoying. But no one else's kid will make you prouder than your own. Even when all they get are "Participant" ribbons.

• That I'd never win any awards for this mothering thing. Come to think of it, I'd like a nice, big "Participant" ribbon for even attempting this whole business. Oh, wait a minute. Come to think of it, I do have this mug...

A Sweet Christmas Memory..."Fruitcake" Style

As a bookseller, I see all sorts of memoirs sailing by. It's the hot thing to write if you are an old rock star ("see how wild I was! and how now I don't have many brain cells left!"), a political has-been ("I really DID have dinner with JFK in 1962..I'll tell you all about how I spilled gravy on his lap. He thought it was a great joke, really..."), or someone who CLAIMS they were married to Elvis at some point in time.

But probably my favorite are the memoirs of famous poets and novelists
--it really does seem that the main qualification to become a famous artist is to have a horrific upbringing with drug-addled parents, lecherous uncles, schizophrenic siblings and crazy family histories (growing up in an Irish slum seems to be the current fad).

I have decided there is no way I will ever be a famous author unless I can beef up my family tree with some REAL crazies. OK, I do have the odd alcoholic far-flung relative (I believe I have one who died drunk in a snow drift somewhere there a long time ago...). But for the most part I really can't say that I'm suffering from "dysfunctional family syndrome." I understand that should be considered a blessing, even if it limits my artistic 'voice.'

Here is the one traumatic Holiday family memory I can pinpoint in my life.

My husband and I  were a young family--oh, so young and so full of children--three kids under 6 by now. It was Christmas Eve in Minnesota and the snow was crunchy underfoot. My beloved extended family was together for Traditional Christmas Enchiladas (a Scandinavian interpretation). My mom's house, warm and cheerful, rang with the voices of children, siblings and in-laws. It was almost time for the much-anticipated gift opening (we are heretical and always open ours on Christmas Eve. Please don't judge)

My youngest child at the time had struggled for a few years with intestinal difficulties (it's called "gas" for want of a better word). During dinner, and before present opening, she began whining and crying about her stomach hurting.  I held her and told her it would get better. It didn't. She cried louder. I rocked her harder. Family members began bringing antacids and advice. She cried harder.

My mother told me I should call the doctor--"It could be  her appendix!" The big, bad Appendicitis Monster was always lurking at our family's door. My grandfather had died of it in his early 30's, my father had his removed, and I had a ruptured appendix at age 8. So naturally, it's the first thing that comes to our minds.

I really didn't want to call the doctor's office. "Mom, it's Christmas Eve. They'll tell me to keep an eye on her and call back in an hour. Then they'll have me come to the Emergency Room and sit for four hours while they dither around, and then send me home. You KNOW that's what happens. We need to wait a while."

The tension in the house continued to escalate...my daughter is crying, I'm getting upset, my mom is pacing and worried, my husband is trying to stay out of the way as the mom/daughter/granddaughter "chemistry" begins to take on disturbing forms..."OK, MOM! I know she's in terrible pain...I'll call the doctor!"

Which I did. And the nurse on the group health line said..."wait a while."
AAAAKK!

"I can't DO this anymore!!" I wail.
"My tummy HURTS!!" screams my daughter.
"You should call the doctor and DEMAND to see someone!!" insists my mother.

I burst into tears along with my suffering child; we sob and moan until my husband steps between my mother and I--

"Elaine...just SHUT UP!!!"

A stunned silence. For my easy-going mate, this is the equivalent of a profanity-laced tirade.

"Elaine, I'm sorry--but you've just got to leave Carla alone--we know it's hard, but we'll have to decide what to do on our own. Sanders family, we're loading up the car and going home. C'mon, boys."

The rest of the family quietly helped us load our belongings into the old station wagon; some leftovers from the delicious dinner that I mostly missed and the gifts I didn't get to see. Our poor weeping daughter was buckled into the car seat as the boys got in their boosters. We drove away in the dark cold night back to our little duplex; I was sniffling and grieving a lost holiday.

And of course,
miraculously,
my little girl stopped crying

As she relaxed into her seat and the "gastric distress" subsided, I heard another young voice pipe up from the back.

"Wow!" our younger son said with enthusiasm. "That was the BEST Christmas EVER!"

[This story obviously has passed into family legend and meme...anytime we have a prickly situation during the holiday season, someone is bound to repeat this optimistic phrase emphatically. We are not sure WHICH celebration the above-mentioned  son was attending...we think he was too busy with his presents to notice what was going on elsewhere in the house.]

So, everyone...have the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER, OK?
Just without the screaming part.

Mom Misadventures #1

OK, stop me if you've heard this one.

This is a real story from real life that is one of my favorites. I think it captures some of the 'sitcom' aspects of young parenthood.. So...if you have heard me tell this story in person, you can skip this. Or you can read it and see how differently it comes out when I'm not embellishing it with arm-waving and grimacing at key points.

My Son and the Pop-Top Adventure

One sunny day, Mom (me!) and her three small children and their auntie decided to take a walk to the local thrift store. I was a young mother living on a limited budget in a less-than suburban neighborhood without the benefit of a car during the day, so my entertainment venues were limited. The thrift store not only held a wealth of knick-knacks and unusual clothing with odd stains, but also many fascinating characters (my sister regularly saw a lady very much past her prime who liked to shop wearing a beauty contest sash and a tiara. We called her the "Thrift Store Queen.")

My boys began to tire of my browsing, and they asked if they could please, please, have a can of pop from the vending machine? Vending machines were a huge treat. My patience was wearing thin, so of course, in the tradition of all exhausted mothers everywhere, I said yes. "But you sit RIGHT HERE by the machine and drink it. Don't move until you are done, then come find me." (By the way...this is in Minnesota, where 'soda' is more correctly called 'pop.' You can argue with me later.)

Ah, blissful quiet...I'm searching the clothing racks for winter jackets when...

"Carla! Come quick! Greg says he's choking!"

My sister ran up, grabbed me and we headed for the vending machines.  I found my middle child (about age 5) seated on the cold cement floor, holding his throat and staring bug-eyed at me--"Mommy, I swallowed the tab off my pop can!" he whispered frantically.

Visions of throat-gashing metal edges swarmed over me as I accosted the local cop posted at the door (this is a very fine establishment). "I need to make a phone call! I need to talk to the doctor!" But as I was calling my insurance hot line (oh, group health...), I saw that a fire truck has already pulled into the parking lot. The policeman had jumped the gun.

The whole store had now gathered around this poor little angelic blond boy, gawking as the firemen and then the  EMTs checked his pulse, asked him questions, and finally escorted him out to the waiting ambulance. My sister collected the other kids to take them home, and I was privileged to  (oh, joy!) ride in the back of the ambulance with my poor, gasping child. "It's ok, Greg, you'll be fine..." But will he?? Every mother's nightmare is coming true! My lack of oversight has led to this. My "Best Mom Ever" mug will be taken away, and I will live in ignominy forever. There will be a "60 Minutes" reporter at my door when I get home. Oh, the shame.

Ah, but the blase atmosphere of the local emergency room brought me back to reality. They don't care if you die in the waiting room...you'd just better make sure you get that insurance form filled out pronto. After quite a wait, we ended up in an exam room. After another extended wait, here comes a doctor...

"Well, young man, what have you been up to?" "I swallowed a pop-top." "Can you breathe?" "Yeah." "Well, I see you can talk. I'll bring you something...hold on..."

And he returned with...graham crackers and milk.


"What???" I am amazed. "What's this for?"

"Eat the cracker and drink the milk, son. It'll help move that little metal bugger right along."

"But...but...won't it rip his stomach up?" I am astonished at this whole line of thinking.

"Nah....it will get all coated up by mucus and go through just fine. Kids eat all sorts of thing, even glass, that just goes right on through."

Well, to this day, I don't know if this was very good treatment, but it seemed to work that time. After his delicious little $400 snack, Greg was ready to go home.

The day was shot. I was exhausted. And I still had dinner to cook and the family to feed when I got home. My sister was there to help, thank goodness. As we sorted out the kitchen mess, I found the offending pop can in one of my shopping bags. Into the recycling bin you go, you bad, bad thing! I shook the can over the sink to empty any remaining liquid.

Clink, clink.

Out fell a pop-top tab. Shiny and accusing.

"Greg...WHAT IS THIS??"

Greg peered into the sink, saw the tab, and said very soberly, "Well, I thought I swallowed it."

Who can be mad at a face like this...I ask you?

I'm Sorry, Have I Suddenly Become a Doddering Idot?

At what exact moment did I go from being "Mommy" to being ancient and clueless Mom? What magical bridge did I cross to deserve being addressed with "Mom... you need to watch what you're doing. Here, let me help you." "No, Mom, you didn't just delete the internet." "Mother...quit pressing all those buttons on your phone and just give it to me!"  I find myself stomping my little foot and screaming, "NO! I do it MYSELF!!" And I feel an overwhelming need to go pout in the corner.

Case in point: a few days ago I decided it was time to start digging through our chest freezer in the basement in preparation for the "Big Cook." That's the month before our annual Christmas Open House (we invite everyone we know and some we don't know). It's the 30 days of cooking and baking and tasting and gaining weight, and I need room in the freezer for all that stuff.

A chest freezer is a scary thing; it tends to collect items the way an attic does.  I rarely make it all the way to the bottom. I'm a little nervous that someday I'll find a chopped-up human body in there, and when the police show up,  I won't have a clue how old it is (no "best used by" date!).

Anyway...I noticed two zip-lock gallon size bags enclosing a vaguely organic substance. Hmmm....what did I put in there? No, I did not write a little message in the little message area on the bag--that's a bit too Martha Stewart for me. I'm thinking, 'did I put mashed bananas in bags again? They turn kinda brown...' and naturally I broke a little corner off the item to taste it.

Huh. That's the dullest-tasting banana I've ever had. Let me take off my glasses and get up close to this stuff...odd...it looks like little...hairs?...pieces of hay?...mixed with...tiny, tiny, ROCKS?

After spitting and gagging into the kitchen sink for a few moments, I began the semi-hysterical interviews. "Did anyone put something in ziplock bags in the freezer that was brown?" My youngest daughter comes in the kitchen, sees the bag, and says exasperatingly "Mom! That's my roach dirt!"

OK. Now, I am a thoroughly patient woman. But ROACH DIRT?? In my FREEZER? "Mom, don't freak out. The roaches weren't IN it; it's just the special dirt I put in the bottom of their cage. I have to keep it fresh and moist, and that's the best way."

VERY IMPORTANT FOOTNOTE: My daughter has Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, which are in no way like the other nasty cockroaches that I have experienced in my house both here and in Texas. They are large, placid, and unassuming creatures that do not multiply in my kitchen, and are common pets with certain "buggy-type" people.

Back to the action--I remind my daughter in  gentle and persuasive tones that perhaps she aught to TELL me when she plans to put dirt in my freezer. She comes back with this zinger...

"Well, Mom, [and here comes that tone of voice!] maybe you shouldn't just eat things when you don't know what they are. Next time, ask!"

Humph. I'm going to the corner to pout.